My mind is so crowded with thoughts, ideas, possibilities, bad poetry (some good)... Bowie's bursting warehouse filled to capacity with the ethereal substance of dreams, memories and speculations. Suffering from my own imagination, I cast my gaze out onto the material world. Its simplicity comforts me, grounds me to the spinning planet. I am dumbfounded by the abundance of vapor, the layers of nothingness, the itching anxieties, the contradictions and superstitions that I contain. And I know I am easily persuaded by my own arguments. My eyes--whether looking outward or, closed, looking inward--believe that the lenses I wear are necessary correction, that there is a "right" way of seeing. The stigma of blindness outweighs the myopia of faith. I look with certainty through horned rim glasses. I speak with certainty about what I see, what I have seen. But I know (with certainty) that certainty is merely illusion fused with philosophy, confusion overcome with lies.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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